what a beautiful mess
by ghettos
Summary: Because behind all that smoky eyeshadow and pink eyeliner she really was just another seventeen-year-old girl with big dreams, defenseless and vulnerable. And the thought that he could now see right through her was just too much to bear. -— drew/nico; oneshot /happy birthday; izzie!


**A/N** — this is really different from my usual stuff; and like with _étoiles_ i struggled through this entire thing, rewriting and rewriting till i got it (not) perfect. i think that's probably why i haven't been on FFN recently, everything's just too crappy for me to even consider posting it online ): after the summer i seem to have gotten exceedingly picky about what i do and what i write, and flasdfghjkl; all of my writing sucks so bad.

i might warn you though, this piece pushes the T-rating and contains some very heavily implied sex, though there's nothing graphic, but if you can't stand that kind of stuff i'd advise you not to read it :") this is also for izzie (dream away with me), because she's so perfect and she's turning sixteen in a week or two (as you can see i can't remember the exact date so i decided that i'd publish this earlier on otherwise i'd forget and stuff) and yeah. it was real awkward to write though; people who know what my name is (though you should) would understand psh.

* * *

what a beautiful mess  
a percy jackson fanfiction by constellated.

* * *

some people are beautiful  
not in looks.  
not in what they say  
just in what they are.

— markus zusak; _I Am The Messenger_

* * *

**fare·well** |ˈferˈwel [_noun_]  
an act of parting or of marking someone's departure.

* * *

There are strands of silvery light that weave through the mesh-like fabric swirled around the bed like a bridal veil, casting slanting shafts of light across his pale face, illuminating the hollows of his cheeks. She stands at his bedside, watching him; his face is peaceful in sleep, almost as though he's a child once more. But he hasn't been a child for many years, and time and burden have eased strands of white hair into the soot black, with his skin turning a chalky pale. But she fell in love with him for his eyes, eyes that were so _alive_, even when the rest of him was dead.

She brushes stray hairs away from his brow, and exhales through her nose. This is the hardest thing she's ever had to do, and Drew Tanaka has made many tough decisions over the course of her nineteen years. It's so easy to forget that he's only seventeen, a good two years younger than she is, because he behaves at least twice his age, with his solemn face and dark eyes that have seen so much death, and loss. Had he been any older, she would have broken up with him face-to-face, but he's younger and more fragile than she would have liked, so she's doing this in a way that's harder for _her_ than it is for him.

Her eyes trail over his angular features, swearing to herself that this is the last time she's ever going to see him. _It's not worth the pain, _she reminds herself. _You made your decision. Now stick to it._ For a moment she considers unpacking all her things and reassuming her place next to him under the duvet, but she catches herself before those thoughts wander too far, and turns away.

In the doorway she hesitates once more, but she's already too far to look back now. _Goodbye, Nico di Angelo._ The door clicks shut behind her.

* * *

**long·ing** |ˈlôNGiNG [_noun_]  
a yearning desire for a certain person or object.

* * *

There's a girl with black ringlets sitting opposite him, but he instinctively knows that it isn't her. None of them are her. If she didn't want to be found, she would never be found, and he would never find her. _Not in this life._

On certain days he thinks her surely dead, which is why he can't locate her, but when he's regained his senses he chides himself, reminding himself that if she were dead, he would be the first to know. No, she isn't dead, which is what makes everything all the more frustrating — how can it be impossible to find her if she's still on this earth, and not in another? He's travelled all over the world in search of her, but none of his journeys have been fruitful, and he always returns home frustrated and empty-handed, with a good mind to wreck half his belongings.

The park is where he comes to think. The leaves are changing now, highlighting the canopies with gold and red, several drifting serenely down to the bench on which he sits. _They say that if you catch a falling leaf, you'll be granted a wish. _Instantly he reaches for one of the swirling leaves, and his reflexes ensure that he plucks it from the air almost effortlessly. _But what should I wish for?_ It's unlikely that if he wishes for her return, she will, but he closes his eyes and mouths the words, _I wish I could see her again_ anyway. Then he releases the crushed leaf, and it falls to the floor, exactly how he feels — dead.

He doesn't even remember how he fell in love with her anymore, but he remembers feeling inferior — inferior to her beauty, also because he was younger, and would probably be seen as an annoying little kid that she wouldn't even take a second glance at. But she had, and he'd never even thought to ask her why, just taking it as part of his good fortune. It's been two years since she left him without a word or a note, and over those two years he'd never once gotten over her, simply asking himself one question over and over again — _why_?

Many thought poorly of her for leaving him behind, repeating words he'd heard during his days at Camp Half-Blood; _she's a useless bitch, get over her, you shouldn't keep pining after her like that, she's not worth it._ But the Drew he'd known was anything but a bitch; she'd always been perfect, kind and gentle and sweet and loving, and she was _definitely_ worth it. But it hurt, anyway, because she had seen him as a stupid kid after all, which was the only explanation as to why she would have left him. Right?

He can keep asking himself questions, one after another, after another, but none of them will ever be answered. Because she's gone, and she isn't coming back.

* * *

**meet·ing** |ˈmētiNG [_noun_]  
a coming together of two or more people, by chance or arrangement:  
_he intrigued her on their first meeting._

* * *

The first time he sees her is out in the strawberry fields, and she's sitting amongst the plants, just barely hidden out of sight, a sketchpad perched on her knees and a piece of charcoal in her other hand. He's seen her before during mealtimes, but never really spoken to her, just dismissing her as one of _those_ Aphrodite kids, those who did nothing but giggle and adjust their makeup and gossip about boys and clothes. But today he sees her out in the fields, not a trace of makeup on her pale, chiseled face, just a hint of pink eyeliner encircling her wide, catlike eyes. There's even a smudge of charcoal on her cheek, and she's wearing standard camp fare — an orange t-shirt and jean cutoffs that come to her knees.

She looks pale and vulnerable and real, not like the plastic façade she seems to want to put up for everyone else. And the sketchbook on her knees — she seems to be drawing the Big House, and a startling likeness it is. He shifts himself to get a better look, and then something rustles; suddenly her eyes are on him, wide, frantic, unsure.

He flushes and stares down at his shoes, because she's got one of those beautiful faces that makes you want to curl up and die in a hole, for you're just not good enough. But her gaze softens, and her eyes are kind; with her free hand she waves at him, splaying her fingers uncertainly. He tries to wave back but ends up looking like a fool, like he always does. There's something distinctly Asian about her features, but he can't be sure.

"Hi?" she says uncertainly, her eyes lingering on his face. "I'm Drew Tanaka," she adds, confirming what he thinks about her having Asian heritage. "I'm — I'm from Cabin Ten. And you are?"

"I — I'm Nico di Angelo," he stutters. Son of Hades or not, he's still a teenager, and meeting beautiful girls isn't exactly doing anything for his hormones. "I'm from Cabin Thirteen."

"Well, hi, Nico," she says, scratching the back of her head, "I'd — well, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone that you saw me. Uh, please?" she doesn't even need to add the formality, and he nods, dumbly. She flashes him a brilliant smile, climbing to her feet and slapping her sketchbook shut. "Um, well, thanks. For, you know, keeping this a secret."

Then she's off, hurrying away, back in the direction of her cabin. Nico stares at her retreating figure until she's out of sight, then shakes his head and looks back down at his feet. _I can't believe how people can be so image-conscious and so shallow. Is it really that embarrassing to be associated with me?_ He rolls his eyes, and then he moves on.

The next time he sees her is at dinner, when she's seated with her cabinmates, her makeup blended to perfection, her neck hung with jewelry and her hair in an elegant twist at her nape. He sits alone at his table, just staring at her, until she catches his eye for just a split-second — he raises his hand to wave at her, but she's already looked away, turning to one of her cabinmates and chattering loudly.

She doesn't even look his way for the rest of dinner.

* * *

**dread** |dred| [_noun_]  
great fear or apprehension.

* * *

It frightens her, the prospect that this scrawny fifteen-year-old with his bright brown eyes saw her when she was completely bare of protection to the world. Because behind all that smoky eyeshadow and pink eyeliner she really was just another seventeen-year-old girl with big dreams, defenseless and vulnerable. And the thought that he could now see right through her was just too much to bear.

She doesn't get a wink of sleep that night.

* * *

**rem·i·nis·cent** |ˌreməˈnisənt| [_adjective_]  
**one; **tending to remind one of something  
**two;** suggesting something by resemblance

* * *

There are traces of her everywhere — from the girl with the black ringlets opposite him to the sharp smell of pine in the air to the French lady who lives next to him who blasts _la vie en rose_ long into the night every day. It's impossible to forget her, no matter how much he'd like to try. Even glancing at the red-gold leaves above him is painful, he recalls an instance in which she commented that autumn was her favourite season. He closes his eyes and thinks of her. _What wouldn't I give just to see her one more time. _

It's starting to get chilly, so he stands up, pulling his coat tighter around him and securing his scarf, before ambling down the pavement towards a Starbucks that's located just around the corner of the park; the scent of coffee is trailing in the air. Whenever they'd visited the coffee bar together, she'd always insisted on taking a picture of their drinks before even taking a sip.

He pushes open the glass door, inhaling the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee. The store is packed as it always is, and he has to struggle through the crowd to get to the counter. "Excuse me — _excuse me_ — oh!" He crashes into a girl who's stooping so low he couldn't possibly have seen her, and hot coffee goes splashing over both of them. Thankfully it doesn't touch his skin, just cascades over the front of his coat, but the girl's hand is scalded; she swears and clutches her wrist.

_That voice . . . I know that voice._ "Drew?" he says, reaching for her and yanking her to her feet, but it's not her; of course it's not. The girl looks scandalized and inclines her head, starting to apologize.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry —"

"It's okay," he says wearily, chiding himself for even _suspecting _for a moment that it would be her. _Of course it's not her, you fool, did you really think she would be so idiotic as to come back? She's probably halfway across the world, where you won't ever find her. _"I thought you were someone else, miss, I'm terribly sorry," he gets out, and then he turns and leaves the shop without another thought.

* * *

**con·fron·ta·tion** |ˌkänfrənˈtāSHən [_noun_]  
a hostile or argumentative meeting or situation between opposing parties

* * *

The next day she decides that she has to settle this, once and for all, so during breakfast she heads up to his table, tapping him on the shoulder. "Hey." Some of the other campers look up, mildly interested as to why Cabin Ten's infamous Drew Tanaka is talking to Nico di Angelo, son of Hades. He turns around and fixes her with a cool stare.

"Good morning. Care to have a seat?"

"I'm just here to tell you that we're not friends." She sounds absolutely ridiculous, she knows she does, but she needs to make him feel so miserable that he'll never dare look her in the eye again, much less gossip about her behind her back. "So don't get your hopes too high."

He remains completely unaffected, spreading a thin layer of butter on his bread. "Butter?"

"Hey!" she snaps, seizing his shoulder and turning him to face her. "I know you've got this stupid perky crush on me right now, so quit acting like I'm having no effect on you. I know you're hurt, so stop pretending. Denial doesn't suit you."

He jerks his shoulder free of her grasp, and gives her a cold glare. "Would you please stop grabbing me? I know you're desperate to get your hands on me, but I'm trying to have _breakfast_ here." He gestures to the half-buttered piece of toast on his plate and raises his eyebrows. "So if you would just hold in your primal urges for a moment more, I would greatly appreciate that."

She resists the urge to scream, because that would be greatly uncool and do nothing for her image. Instead she settles for taking deep breaths, and once she's regained her composure, says, "I just want to tell you that you're a stupid little kid and I would never even consider someone like you. So stop thinking of me in that way." With that, she turns on her heel and stomps back to her table, amidst many surprised and curious stares. He pretends that her words have no effect on him, but his hands shake slightly as he reaches once more for the butter dish.

Only when he's left the dining pavilion does he let the hurt set in.

* * *

**chem·is·try** |ˈkeməstrē [_noun_]  
the complex emotional or psychological interaction between two people

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Drew _does_ have a conscience, and a few hours later she wonders if she was a little too hard on him. After all, he _is_ just a kid, she muses, and lets out a sigh. She reflects on herself each time she insults a person, wondering if it was necessary or not, and whilst this certainly was necessary, there was something in his _eyes _that changed when she spoke to him. His eyes were beautiful, and mesmerizing. And yet, they troubled her._  
_

She leaves her cabin and steps into the moonlight, preparing to head towards the ominous Hades cabin with its blazing green fire and skeleton guards, but something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. She turns to see someone standing on top of the hill, beside the pine tree that protects the valley and the camp, _petting_ the dragon that guards the tree. _It can't be . . ._ but almost as if he senses her, he turns around, and even in the dark she can see his eyes crystal-clear.

They remain frozen like that for a moment, and then he beckons her over with his free hand, still stroking the dragon's head with his other. Hesitantly, she approaches the hill, but refuses to get within a two-metre radius of either him or the dragon. He continues patting the dragon's scaly head, and seemingly does not notice her presence at all. After a while, he remarks, quietly, "he doesn't bite."

"He stinks," she counters immediately; the dragon snorts, a puff of smoke meeting the chilly air. She takes an involuntary step back, and says again, this time louder, "he really does; I'm serious."

But he pays no heed, just saying, "you're a sport, aren't you? Don't bite her, okay?" as he rubs the dragon's temples with his forefinger. His face is calm, drawn, with a placidity to it that reminds her of a the eerie calm in the eye of storm; she can just about feel the shadows swirling around him, recognizing him as one of their own. Involuntarily, she perches on the ground next to him, wincing as her jean-clad knees sink into the mud, damp from the rain that day. "You're talking to a dragon," she says, deciding to state the obvious. He lets out a snort, and rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for telling me."

The dragon's eyes are bright amber, and she finds herself mesmerized by them. Almost subconsciously, she reaches out to touch its head, letting her fingers just brush its forehead.

"You're beautiful."

Immediately her hand snaps back from the dragon's head, and she whirls around to look at him. His eyes are solemn, with no indication that he was joking. She'd never been called _beautiful_ in her entire life. _Hot_, maybe, and _sexy_, sure, but never beautiful. She doesn't know how to respond, so she just inclines her head in a short nod, before turning back to the dragon. Her breath catches in her chest. _Beautiful. _Never beautiful.

When she touches its head once more, she lets out a shaky laugh, and even though she should be afraid — after all, there _is_ a living, breathing, fire-blowing dragon at the end of her arm — she feels oddly at peace. She's never felt that way for a long time, not since she ran away from home, and she doubts that she'll ever feel this way again for a very, very long time.

* * *

**be·gin·ning** |biˈginiNG [noun]  
the point in time or space at which something starts.

* * *

That's how it started — with a dragon on a hill in the moonlight, and it soon spread to _other things_ — he _is_ a growing teenage boy, and she's a young woman with needs and desires of her own. He wanted to be friends, but she didn't — it would make everything so much easier after it all ended. So after he grunts and comes and rolls of her with a kiss brushed against her cheek, she counts the seconds till he falls asleep before standing up and trying to locate her underwear. There's a rumble from below, and she ignores it. _I'm trying to make it better for him,_ she says to the empty cabin at large. The ground is silent this time around, as if Hades, too, agrees with her. But before she leaves she moves over to the bunk, sweeps his fringe back from his forehead, and plants a kiss on his brow. Then she slips out of the cabin and back to her own.

She feels like she's trapped in something she never intended to happen — she's actually growing _attached _to him. But it's hard not to — everything he says is so innocent and the way this is all so _new_ to him is endearing — every time she wants to try something new, it's always utterly and completely alien to him. But he trusts her, and that's the worst part — he trusts her _wholeheartedly. _She doesn't even trust herself, and she can't bring herself to tell him what a mistake it would be to trust _her. __The rite of passage,_ she reminds herself every time she feels warmth spread through her at the thought of him, and those four words are enough to extinguish all hope inside of her. _You have to break his heart. There's no way around it. _

Everyone has their beliefs; beliefs that they would do anything to uphold. Drew Tanaka had hers.

* * *

**re·al·i·za·tion** |ˌrē(ə)ləˈzāSHən [_noun_]  
an act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact:

* * *

She doesn't know when it happens — whether it was the night they spent watching the stars together, or the day he shadow-travelled them both to New York for breakfast at Tiffany's (she's always been a romantic — after all, her mother _is_ the goddess of love) but it just strikes her one day: she's in _love. _And it's not just the loose, floaty emotion that's infatuation, she's actually, wholly in love with him. She realizes this one day as they're sitting on the beach, just watching the waves. At first she'd thought it was just friendship — she hadn't had a friend in a very long time, and he was the first one that she was willing to lower her guard for. But it was anything but friendship.

She's not proud of her reaction after she comes to this realization. She's surprised that he even came back to her, even after what she'd said to him in a burst of sudden anger and fury. But he's always been understanding, especially to her. He says _she's _the nice one, the one who's always there for him. _Well of course,_ she says instinctively. _You're like a little brother I never had. _

She doesn't need to look at him to see the hurt flash across his face, but she can't even convince herself. _No one thinks of their younger brothers this way_, the more logical side of her rationalizes. _Just admit it, you're in love with_ him.

She never really comes to terms with this fact.

* * *

**des·per·a·tion** |ˌdespəˈrāSHən [_noun_]  
a state of despair, typically one that results in rash or extreme behavior.

* * *

Those four words eat away at her.

Every time she sees his face, she thinks; _the rite of passage. _Every time he makes her smile, she thinks; _the rite of passage. _Every time she hears his voice, she thinks; _the rite of passage; _and those words repeat themselves over and over and over again in her head. _The rite of passage the rite of passage the right of passage the right of passage _—

_You must be worthy to your mother,_ she thinks, _you must prove yourself a true child of Aphrodite. _But there's just something about the way his eyes light up when they see her, the way he smiles, and the callous manner in which he brushes his fringe away from his forehead —

One day she just tells him; _forget the gods. Let's run._

* * *

**heart·break** |ˈhärtˌbrāk [_noun_]  
overwhelming distress; so intense it is said to _break your heart._

* * *

She just saw him as a stupid little kid who'd fallen head over heels for her, and disposed of him as she saw fit. And all the while he'd _fucking been in love with her _she'd just been planning how to make him another one of her conquests, as a ploy to prove herself to her mother. Sometimes he feels like she's to blame, but in others he reminds himself that he, too, wanted to seem worthy to his father. He wanted his father to _love _and _care for him_ like a real father should. And he'd even been willing to betray and lie to Percy just to accomplish that.

In his free time he goes to visit Percy himself, and talks to him while watching dusty old films on their television. _That really sucks, man, _had been the first thing Percy'd said to him after he'd explained the whole Drew fiasco. _I know how you feel. _But even as he spoke, he was tangled up on the sofa with Annabeth, his arm around her waist and his lips pressed to her temple. Nico knows that Percy doesn't mean to be a hypocrite, that he doesn't mean to make him feel even worse than he already does, but _sometimes, _he thinks, _Percy Jackson is just one of the most insensitive people in the planet. _Even Annabeth, after hearing this, catches his eye and mouths _sorry. _That doesn't make him feel any better.

The immediate aftermath of her departure was the worst; it took him two whole weeks to put himself together, set down the alcohol bottle in the sink, and haul his ass over to Percy's to talk to him. Annabeth's more than often always at his cousin's apartment, she offers better advice than Percy ever could. _How about museums? _she suggests. _Looking at art might take your mind off things. _

He's never been a big fan of art, but seeing as Annabeth's previous advice (listening to music, trying his hand at poetry — which he sucked at) seemed to have eased the crushing weight on his chest just a little, he decides to go for it, shadow-travelling to the Met to take a look at the paintings and sculptures there, all of which seem to have "hidden meanings" that he can't see to decipher. He's barely been there an hour when he's suddenly accosted by a red-headed, green-eyed female whom Nico recognizes to be Rachel Dare, the Oracle of Delphi. She's somewhat delighted to see him, offering him a friendly hug and for his sake, he plasters a smile across his face. It looks pained, and Rachel remarks, _you need to practice your smiling._

By the end of his visit he's got a number scrawled across his inner arm in black Sharpie and has promised Rachel that he'll call her the next time he's in town — which might be sooner than he thinks_, _he muses. But after shadow-travelling home — which, he admits, was a mistake — he's once more reminded of _her, _and without second thought, reaches for the liquor cabinet, popping open a fresh bottle._  
_

He never really got over her, after all.

* * *

**Aph·ro·di·te** |ˌafrəˈdītē| [_noun_]  
the Greek goddess of beauty, fertility, and sexual love.

* * *

She thought she'd gotten away from it. She thought she'd managed to escape. Two months had gone by and not a single god — or goddess — had come to disturb them or drag them back to America. So the last thing she expected was to walk into into the bathroom and find her very own mother perched on the edge of the bathtub, admiring herself in a large handheld mirror.

She drops the bottle of perfume she's holding with a crash; the glass shatters on the floor and sends streams of perfume billowing upwards into her nostrils. But she's shell-shocked, just staring at her mother, until she gets out, "why?"

"Why hello there, darling," Aphrodite says, uncrossing her legs with a glittering smile and stands up, heading over to her daughter and planting kisses on both her cheeks. Usually Drew would have returned the gesture, but she's still startled, in shock, and to be perfectly honest, petrified. She's terrified of what her mother might do to her, for falling in love and _staying _in love with a boy. _The last one to do that was Silene Beauregard, and look where she is now,_ Drew thinks to herself, and bites back a shiver.

Aphrodite's smile is almost poisonous. "Oh, there's no need to be _frightened _of your dear old mother, _darling. _I just came here to check on you." Her mother steps out of the bathroom and looks down either hallway, before swiveling around with an arched eyebrow. "I expected you to have better taste than _vintage, _m'dear. This is all so . . . _last_ year.

"And _Paris, _hon?" Aphrodite asks, the smile on her face more forced than ever. "You forget, love, that Paris is the city of_ love. _Now what," she says, tapping a manicured finger against her chin, "are you doing here?"

"What do you want?" Drew finally musters, her voice tremulous. The smile is wiped right off Aphrodite's face, and she places a hand almost tenderly on her daughter's face, another smile on her lips almost instantly, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Oh, sweetie, sweetie. You know what I want."

* * *

**re·gret** |riˈgret| [_noun_]  
a feeling of sadness, repentance, or disappointment over something that has happened or been done

* * *

Heavy heart. Head held high. A painful smile; one that doesn't quite echo what she's really thinking. Shaking fingers, pressed to her hips, just so nobody will see. She's not proud of what she did. She's not proud of her choices, that she chose herself over him. That she chose her own pride and her own dignity over him, when he would have chosen her any day.

She's closer than she lets him think; after a year or two of living by herself in Paris, she moved to England. He tracked her there, but he hadn't been able to locate her — after all, there were millions of people in London alone. But she found him. Day after day she watches him as he sits in the park, just staring at the leaves above him tonelessly, like he's dead and there's nothing worth living for anymore. She wishes she could just go up to him and apologize, but there's something holding her back. Everything she sacrificed him for. It pulled her into its grasp, and now there's no going back.

But it doesn't mean she's incapable of regret.

* * *

**sol·ace** |ˈsälis [_noun_]  
comfort or consolation in a time of distress or sadness

* * *

There's something about the forbidden factor that makes the whole thing even sweeter, Nico muses one day when he's got his head between Rachel's legs and her fingers are knotted into his hair, gasping as she leans back, on the verge of exploding. It's better than what he had with Drew. Now he can think of her without going into an emotional breakdown, if that's anything to show for it.

But he still misses her. Oh, how he misses her. Two years and a day have done nothing for him, he still misses her like she'd left him yesterday, because he can still remember her like he'd seen her minutes before. He closes his eyes now, and imagines her face — her wide hazel eyes, black hair in elaborate ringlets, eyes lined with about ten rounds of pink eyeliner, defining them and making them even more piercing. The way she gasps just before she comes — a little endearing secret he'd like to keep to himself. Then he opens his eyes and he sees Rachel, her red hair spilling across the white sheets like a crimson pool, splayed into fingers against the duvet, and something goes through him, shocking him back into reality.

In that moment he realizes that he hadn't found solace in Rachel, and that this entire thing was an enormous mistake. He hadn't come to Rachel for comfort. He'd come to her for sex.

* * *

**dis·gust**|disˈgəst| [_noun_]  
a feeling of revulsion or profound disapproval aroused by something unpleasant or offensive

* * *

He sinks back into a depression and returns to his daily perch in the park — watching the leaves around him fall one after another to the ground, where they remain, hapless, until some friendly passer-by comes along and steps on them. _It's inevitable,_ he thinks, watching the leaves rustling above him, red and gold and yellow shades streaked across the canopies. _They're all going to fall one day. There's no way for them to escape a fate that's already been laid out for them._

_There wasn't any for her, either, _he thinks with a sigh. _She was bound to dump me one day — all the Aphrodite kids do. _But it doesn't change the fact that she was his first love, his first crush, his first _everything,_ and nobody really forgets their first time. But all the same he can't help but feel disgusted — at himself, for using Rachel; at _her_, for picking her dignity and her identity over him — when he had left his happily behind when she'd asked him to run away with her. _She's shameless, _he thinks to himself. _You'd have thought that she'd come back and apologize._

_But you were never good enough for her,_ he reminds himself. _You were always inferior. _Then he feels disgust all over again, but this time at himself, for even thinking for a _second_ that he was worthy of her. Because she always was, and always would be, too good for him.

* * *

**pride** |prīd [_noun_]  
a feeling or deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements;  
the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated  
or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired

* * *

"No," she says, and Aphrodite's eyes widen. "I mean it. I'm done. I don't give a _fuck _whether you acknowledge me or anything. I don't give a _fuck_whether you hate me. All that I know is that I've sacrificed _everything _for you, but you won't even acknowledge it. And I haven't gained anything. I've just lost everything."

"You don't want to anger —"

"Oh, fucking get over yourself," Drew says, and needless to say, her mother is shocked into silence. Drew closes her eyes. "All of it was for your pride," she says. "For my pride in being your daughter. Do you _know _how painful it is for me to look at him everyday, knowing that he's fucking that bitch and that I can't do anything about it. So please. Just go."

There's a pause. "Drew, sweetie," says Aphrodite, "once I, too, loved a man, but he —"

"I don't _fucking _care about you anymore." Drew's voice is hard. "Now please, just leave me alone." She turns away and refuses to look at her mother. "Please. I don't want to see you anymore. Not now, not later, not _ever again._Please just go." There's no sound from the goddess, and after about ten minutes of stagnant silence Drew is forced to return her gaze to her front. But Aphrodite's gone, without a trace of her ever having been there.

* * *

**re·turn** |riˈtərn| [_verb_]  
come or go back to a place or person

* * *

The sky is an extraordinary shade of blue today, he notes as he steps from his house and onto the sidewalk, pulling his scarf even tighter around him. The winds today are especially strong, but somehow they're soothing — as if they're taking all his worries and burdens with them as they brush past him, howling into the empty space about him. He exhales; there's a curl of smoke that issues from his mouth as his warm breath meets the chilly air — and he's reminded of that one night with Peleus on the hill at camp, the day they became friends.

_You have to forget her,_ he tells himself.

He'd head straight for the park like he usually would, but there's someone sitting in his place, so he decides to go to Starbucks first for a pick-me-up. His head is still throbbing from all the drinking he'd done the previous night, but the pain is ebbing away, replaced by a strange longing that he can't quite explain. He's just pushed open the door to Starbucks when an incredibly familiar voice pierces the air; "no, I specifically ordered a _soy_ latte." He freezes, knowing that this must be one of his hallucinations again. But it isn't.

"_Drew_?"

"Nico!" she says, her eyes widen almost comically and she takes a step back from the counter, increasing the distance between them. He tries not to let that hurt him as he tries to string together a coherent sentence, piecing words together in his minds as his lips struggle to shape themselves around the words. "How — what — why — "

He's shocked, that's true, and he's also incredibly confused — _what is she doing here_? But she tries for a smile, lifting her hand to wave at him, feebly. "Um, hi." There's a silence that seems to drag on forever, until the Starbucks barista interrupts, with a short, "miss, here's your soy latte," handing her the cup. She accepts it with a warm smile that seems to temporarily blind the barista, and when he turns around he's smiling, too. Nico notices this but doesn't say anything, he's still incapable of speech at the current moment.

"You came back," he says finally, when she moves towards him, standing right before him so close that their noses are almost touching. "You _came back,_" he repeats, like saying it again will make it any less real.

"Nico," she says, and there's a lilt to her voice, "I never left."

* * *

**bea·uty** |ˈbyo͞otē [_noun_] ( pl. beauties )  
**one; **a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses  
**two;** a combination of qualities that pleases the intellect or moral sense.

* * *

"But — but Aphrodite —"

"I don't care about that, not anymore," she says. And in that moment, all the confusion, all the heartbreak, all the depression, all the alcohol and the nights of quietly crying seem to evaporate from Nico's heart, and when she smiles at him he's filled with something else, something _new._ "How about we start all over again? Hi, I'm Drew Tanaka."

"You're beautiful," he answers.

She smiles up at him. "So are you."

* * *

**A/N —** i hope you enjoyed it, this was actually a lot of effort :") i hope you liked it, izzie, cause i love you and you're fabulous and such. so yeah ily and be happy and sweet sixteen! (: the timeline can get pretty confusing, i get that, so if you need clarification please feel free to PM/contact me in some other way (whichever you want, eheh) and i'll be more than happy to clear it up for you! :D this is also unbetaed, like most of my other work, so feel free to point out any grammatical/spelling mistakes you might find!

please do _not_ favourite or alert without reviewing! and please do review c;


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